


The Winter Rose

by fortunatelylori



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Style, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 17:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17105444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatelylori/pseuds/fortunatelylori
Summary: Ten years have passed since the Long Night and in Winterfell, a beautiful princess holds a tourney to determine who will be her husband. An unapologetic Jonsa fairy tale of fools, kings and bastards drawing inspiration from ASOIAF lore and mythology. This contains a dark take on Daenerys Targaryen so if that upsets you, please don't read.





	The Winter Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this fic as part of the secret santa project on tumblr, hosted by https://jonsasecretsanta2018.tumblr.com/. This is dedicated to my gift reciever this year, thescarletempress0208 on tumblr. 
> 
> I really wanted to write a Jonsa fairy tale and Christmas felt like the perfect time to do it. I play a little loose with the rules of medieval tourneys and there are things that stretch logic a bit, like the whimsical magic elements but it wouldn't be a fairy tale otherwise would it? :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it and Merry Christmas!

She stumbled over the stairs, struggling with the thick coat of ice that covered the stone and as she came out into the cold, winter air she breathed deeply, happy to have escaped the dank and musty crypts below.

All around her the charred and blackened ruins of the once great castle of the North laid bare and empty, covered in thick layers of freshly shed snow and, as she walked through the court yard, it scrunched beneath her feet, giving out hollowed echoes. It was a desolate place, to be sure. Even more so as dusk was fast approaching and she found herself alone, all the other tourists having long since left.

But as snowflakes danced all around her, nestling in her hair, melting on her cheeks, she had to admit there was also a strange kind of beauty to it. In front of her was the last of the towers that had remained tall and whole, aside from the caved in roof that had given it its name. It was like a sentinel among the crumbled ruins, with thick vines that encircled the ice laden stone, covering it with lush green foliage despite the time of year. Sprinkled throughout were the most beautiful blue roses, the shade of which she had never seen before, come into full bloom, their soft petals covered in thin shards of ice that sparkled in the reddish sunlight.

She drew a deep breath and inhaled the sweet floral scent that hanged thick and fragrant in the air.

“Do you know the story of the Broken Tower and the winter roses?”

She smiled at the sound of his voice, leaden with the thick Northern accent she had grown to love. She had left him in the crypts, pouring over the inscriptions even though he must have seen them a hundred times before. Yet she knew it wouldn’t take long for him to come looking for her. After all, they had only met three months before and leaving each other’s sight from that day had proved an impossible task.

She looked at him as he came by her side, and smiled. “To hear you speak,” she said, “you’d think every rock in the North has a story to tell.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be so dismissive of your own people’s history.”

She rolled her eyes at that, even though he did have a point. She had been born here after all, though she held very few memories of the North. Her family had moved when she was ten and from that time, it was Braavos she had called home. She doubted she would even be here if she hadn’t met an utterly charming and all too handsome Northern archeologist on a train ride to Volantis and promptly married him.

“Is this another one of those stories of the ice zombies and three eyed ravens you’re so fond of telling me right before I go to sleep?”

“No,” he said, coming closer to her and taking her hands between his own. He started rubbing them and blowing hot air between her cupped palms, warming her frozen fingers. Her smile widened, still surprised at the care he showed for her in such small ways that she wouldn’t have been able to think of.

“This is a story that takes place after the Long Night had ended and the Night King was defeated,” he said, his voice low. “It was the time of the Long Summer when the Targaryen queen had taken the throne and ruled the Seven Kingdoms on the back of her dragon. She was hailed as the savior of the realm and all soon forgot about the bravery of the Northern men against the army of the dead, of the warrior that mounted a dragon and beheaded the Night King with the aid of his cousin, The Three Eyed Raven. All had forgotten but one … because in Winterfell, there was still one that remembered and held fast to those memories.”

“Who?” she asked, trying to contain her curiosity although she knew sooner or later she would fall under the spell of his deep voice.

“A princess,” he said, kissing the tips of her fingers. “Beautiful and brave, with long flowing hair that shone like fine polished copper. Her name was Sansa Stark and she was the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Sansa …” she said in mocking disbelief. “Her name was Sansa …” He was good, she had to admit. Very good indeed.

“After the Long Night had ended, winter was soon chased from the lands and with the coming of the dragons, summer settled over Westeros. At first the people rejoiced, as they set upon the task to rebuild what the war had destroyed, rising their holdfasts again and planting crops. But, in time, the earth grew hard and dry and the rains did not come to quench them. Crops began to wither and die under the scorching blaze of the sun, rivers shrunk and lakes all but vanished.

It was this that brought the great sorrow upon the princess. Justly and ably she had ruled for ten years, from the ancient seat where her father had once stood. But the North was a barren place and summer did not take kindly to the little food it had to offer. As times grew hard for her long suffering kingdom and men’s bellies went empty, her bannermen began to pressure her to marry.

“Marry, my lady,” they said. “Join the North to a great house that will bring prosperity back to our lands.”

The princess refused at first. She had been a child of summer songs and love once, wishing nothing more than to marry a handsome prince and bare him sons. But life had snatched those dreams from her and left only sorrow in their place. Twice she had been forced to marry before and twice she had been humiliated and abused.

But her bannermen’s voices grew ever more insistent. Each day they would find her and gave her no peace, proposing one high lord and then another. In time, the princess’ resolve began to falter under their unrelenting assault.

 “If I am to marry,” she told them, “let it be to a strong and capable man. Do not forget, my lords, that he who shall be my husband will also become your liege and lord and such qualities are not easily found.”

The bannermen fell over themselves exalting the virtues of the man they proposed, one voice giving way to another until they seemed but a hive of agitated wasps, flying ever more dangerously close to her. She fought them as best she could.  

“I will not take the word of other men on the qualities of my future husband,” she finally said.  “I will see them for myself. We shall hold a tourney at Winterfell in 3 moons time. All those fit to bare arms are invited to join and the victor shall have my hand in marriage.”

 _Let the fates decide_ , the princess thought with a heavy heart. _Let him be brave and strong and, if the Gods are not silent, let him be gentle too._

But her bannermen were wily men, that could not be trifled with and for whom fates were but a child’s fancy. They pretended to accept the princess’ decision but in secret they sent out invitations only to the highest born of the land, their kin and allies, men they thought would rise their standing in life were they to become their lady’s lord and husband.

Winterfell had always been a beautiful place, with its sprawling court yards and glass gardens. Tall, proud walls of white stone rose high into the sky, springing rounded towers where they adjoined. Large, clear glass windows were cut deep into the walls, reflecting light and buried deep into the stone, a labyrinth of pipes pumped water towards the bathing house, giving the stone life and filling the outer walls with lush moss and ferns even as draught had dried all the greenery in the land.

The princess had loved it here once. When she was kept away, suffering at the hands of strangers, the thought of Winterfell had kept her hope alive, dreaming and praying to see it once more. But now, with all her family gone, with her bannermen watchful of her every move and the impending arrival of the Dragon Queen, who had insisted on joining the festivities, the hallways of her beloved castle seemed to close tightly around her, suffocating her. It was no longer a place of safety and refuge but a prison that kept her chained, at the mercy of other people’s whims.

As the contenders gathered in Winterfell, their high and esteemed coats of arms flung defiantly into the air when they passed through the gates, her bannermen’s ploy became clear. Still, as she stood in the court yard awaiting the Dragon Queen, her heart leaped into her chest anytime a new contender passed through the gates. Her eyes searched every new face to see if she could recognize the form that she hoped to find hidden beneath the armor. But all the men were strangers, some fair of face, others merely boastful and grinning with excitement. It made no difference to her.

The air was dry and hot that day. The trees of the ancient godswood twisted and shivered horribly as a gust of wind blew past. High above, the first screech of the dragon was heard, loud and piercing, and all the souls down below looked up to see the terrible sight before them. Black webbed wings that covered the sun flapped lazily as the great beast descended bringing its mistress down to the ground, making the earth shake beneath its huge talons. As it came down it gave a loud roar that had the people of Winterfell back away from its huge mauls and jagged teeth. Only the princess remained in place, her face marked in steel, holding her chin high against the raging mouth of the dragon.

As the Dragon Queen descended, the men and women of Winterfell bowed before her. But even as she bowed, the princess’ eyes roamed through the court yard where the queen’s retinue assembled behind her large, winged beast. Her stomach turned in painful knots. _Surely he will come with her_ , she thought. The image of the long lost warrior standing once again in the court yard where he had grown and fought, filled her with longing but also despair for he would come to see her wed another.

Knights dressed in armor and savages wearing leathers came down from their great horses and the three headed dragon banner casted its large shadow over all of them. But her warrior was nowhere to be found and the princess’ heart grew heavy once more.  

As the first day of the tourney came, not even the skills of the puppet masters invited especially for the occasion could lessen her sadness. She sat on the dais, in the middle of the erected stands and watched as the tragic love story of Queen Naerys and her brother, Prince Aemon, the Dragonknight, was being played out.

 The lords of her court knew of the princess’ love for the old tale and had brought the most skilled puppeteers in the land to honor her. But the whispered declarations of love and the Dragonknight crowning his love with the gilded flower crown held no more fascination for her now, for she knew the stories were false. Such things were to be dreamed of by the young who had not known loss or suffering.

All she could see were the men, high above the pretty colorful dolls, pulling on the strings in jerky movements, making the wooden creatures move about the stage in a ghastly dance, swoon and fall to their deaths with such aplomb as to make her shudder.

Still she did her duty and smiled, clapping now and again and chatting as amiably as she could to the Queen sitting next to her who seemed charmed by the spectacle of color and stiff dolls.

“One day, they will write songs of your own tourney, my lady,” she said.

The princess looked on as the stage was taken down and the limp dolls were carried off and nodded. “Perhaps … Let us pray I have equally skilled puppeteers to pull my strings when my time comes.”

The Queen was not wrong to note on the momentous importance of the Winterfell tourney. Tales of the princess’ beauty as well as the careful entreatment of her bannermen had brought no less than ninety-nine knights to the festivities. They were grouped according to rank and station, the noblest of them all competing against those of minor rank.

As the groups took to the field, standing on their horses on opposing sides, one sight, in particular, caught the attention and mirth of the audience. For standing alongside the lesser knights, was a fool. Dressed in steel as the rest he assuredly was but his motley patterned armor was colored in bright blues and reds and upon his head he wore a two horned helmet, adorned with bells at the tip. How he had managed to sneak in between such respectable company no one could say for sure. But fools were tricksters by nature, everyone agreed, and their amusement at the sight and the antics they would be likely to expect made them all agreeable to let the poor creature have his way.

Upon the signal of the trumpets, the knights spurred on their horses and rode to face off against each other, riding hard and fast until they clashed in the middle of the field in a frenzy of hooves and steel. Upon impact, many were thrown from their horses, their day of glory ended before it had begun but for those still mounted the fight went on through the afternoon.

The ground beneath them was dry and their fighting was so fierce and rough that dust rose all around them, engulfing them to the point where it was hard to tell man and beast apart. The sound of their horses was echoed by the grunts of the men and their cheers of victory every time they managed to defeat an opponent.

As one after another exited the tourney, the sounds dissipated until only the sporadic clinking of steel would announce the defeat of yet another contender. Finally, the dust began to clear and settle and to the audience’s great dismay only five knights remained mounted.

There was Ser Tywald Lannister, a man past his youth and strong of arm, who donned the red and gold armor of his house, one he had been raised to lead after the demise of his cousin Tywin and his children.

Ser Aegor Baratheon was also among them, a matter that enraged the audience although they did not dare voice their disapproval outright for they knew him to be the queen’s own preferred champion. But in hushed tones and whispers they called him by his proper name of Blackfyre, remembering that it was the queen that had granted him the ancient Baratheon name in order to take it from the bastard, Gendry Waters.

Lord Olymer Tyrell was as skilled with a lance as he was beautiful, with long golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled mischievously as he took down his helmet to gaze upon the princess as if he had already won the tourney.

The favorite among them was, without a doubt, Ser Harrold Hardyng, Lord Paramount of the Vale. The Knights of the Vale had steadfastly supported the North for centuries and their prowess in battle was legendary. The Young Falcon was handsome and charming, striking a dashing figure upon the field, to the approval of the ladies in attendance.

But the most outstanding turn of events was the identity of the fifth mounted knight. For it was none other than the fool. He stood undefeated, with barely a scratch on his armor. As the five knights charged at each other again, meaning to settle the victory once and for all, the fool’s bells dangled in the air and clinked, causing the audience to burst with laughter.

But as soon as he raised his sword and fell upon Ser Aegor, all laughter seized. There was nothing amusing or awkward about the way the knight moved. He stood up in his stir-ups with ease and wielded the long sword as if he had been born to it. Ser Aegor was left with no choice but to retreat, holding his shield up to protect himself while he hunched over in order to stop himself from falling.

The fool’s ability and courage had even the princess gasping at his every movement. Enthralled, she watched him lean over the side of his saddle and cut the leather binding off of Ser Aegor’s horse. He then swiftly brought the pummel down upon the bewildered lord who came crushing to the ground with a loud thud that sent the crowd on their feet, cheering.

She found herself cheering as well, as her heart beat out of her chest only to freeze with horror as she saw Ser Tywald charging from behind, meaning to crush the upstart fool.

“Behind you!” the princess screamed, standing up from her seat. Her cheeks turned red as everyone in attendance took note of her reaction and sat down quickly.

“My lady favors the fool, I see,” the queen said with amusement, forcing the princess to swallow the choice remarks that were stinging her tongue. Yet she could not contain her sigh of relief as the brave fool heard her warning and turned around to face his foes.

In truth, she couldn’t quite tell what had sparked her reaction or her interest. Only that, perhaps, she was certain he had not come there at the bidding of her lords. Watching him as he rode in, fending off the lion’s charge with agile, almost effortless abandon caused her blood to sing and for a moment she was no longer the Lady of Winterfell, the daughter of murdered parents, the sister of fallen brothers or widow to untrue husbands. She was a young girl again, dazed by songs of chivalry and romance, watching a brave knight fighting to win her favor.

And fight her fool did until Ser Tywald’s strong arm began to slow. But just as he was about to claim victory, the great dragon began his dreadful song. He flew past the field, turning light to darkness and causing the dust that had settled to rise once again from the ground.

His piercing song continued loud and unabated and the princess saw with horror how the fool’s whole body began to shake. His sword slipped from his hand just as it was about to strike Ser Tywald from his horse and his arm fell slack at his side.

Seizing his moment, the Lannister fell upon the fool who desperately tried to fend off his attacks and pull on the reigns of his horse with his one good hand, trying to extract himself from the entanglement. If this was allowed to continue, the princess knew, he would be thrown into the dirt.

Without thinking, she rose once again from her seat and wordlessly bid the trumpeters to signal the ending to the day’s proceedings. They looked confused at the request but did their lady’s bidding nonetheless. The trumpets rang throughout the field three times putting an end to the fighting and drowning out the screeching of the dragon.

All four knights remaining looked up at her then but it was the fool she regarded most of all. “You have all fought bravely, my lords,” she said. “Rest now and enjoy the festivities. I look forward to your exploits on the morrow.”

Her decision had greatly displeased her bannermen and it took the better part of the afternoon to placate them. The Queen’s voice, however, drowned out all the rest in her displeasure at the princess’ decision. In secret she sent her men to search for the fool. As far as Hornwood and the Dreadfort they searched and yet could find no traces of him.

As for the princess, guards were instructed to escort her back to her chambers. For her safety, the Queen had said. But as they urged her on through the corridors of her own home, she did not feel safe.

It was only when she locked the door to her chamber that she could breathe in relief. Despite it all, she could not help but think of the brave fool who had defied the high lords of Westeros for her.

She reprimanded herself at the thought. She did not know who the fool was, after all, and she had learned enough of men’s deceit to know that they are rarely who they appear to be. But still her mind wandered back to his deep and solemn bow to her from across the field. There was so little joy in her life now. What was the harm in dreams after all?

  _He did not remove his helmet as the other lords did_ , she noted and it intrigued her. A stubborn thought persisted in her mind but she chased it away as quickly as it came. It would be unwise to even dream of such a thing, she decided.

Soon the feast would begin and she needed to make ready. She busied herself with picking out her garments, settling on a long and modest Northern dress of green velvet embroidered with the direwolf sigil of her house. She had not worn it in years but she refused to dwell on why she decided to do so now.

As she went to her desk to pick up the pins she had discarded the night before, she noticed a most peculiar sight.  Sitting on top of documents and books, was a beautiful, blue rose dripped in sparkling dots of ice. The princess picked it up with trembling hands.

Blue roses had grown in the glass gardens of Winterfell for centuries but she had thought them all gone since the dragons had returned. She brought the soft petals up to her nose and inhaled deeply. The sweet smell invaded her senses, almost making her dizzy.

It was perhaps the shock of seeing the flower again or a slip of her unsteady hands but one of the tiny thorns on the rose pricked her finger. The tiniest of blood drops fell upon the blue petals and it was as if the flower came alive. Fine silver threads snaked upwards, engulfing her. They moved and weaved around her, dancing in the fading sunlight as the princess looked on in amazement as what were only threads moments before became cloth.

When she turned to look at herself in the looking glass, she was draped in a magnificent silver cloak, so light that the slightest gust of wind made it bellow around her, the color so fine that it seemed as if the moon was floating above a sparkling lake. Entranced, she pulled the hood over her head to see what it might look like but before she could admire the sight, she found herself pushed towards the door, as if the cloak had a mind of its own.

Past the guards stationed at her door it took her, through the narrow hallways and into the Great Hall. Servants were quietly lighting up the last of the candles, bathing the room in pale silvery light that flickered and cast shadows on the walls. The long tables had been set up around the room and all manner of meats and vegetables placed upon them, their savory smells lingering pleasantly in the air. High up in the balcony, the minstrels were tuning their instruments as the guests began arriving, in groups small and large.

And yet, under the hood of her cloak, no one took note of her. The silver cloth carried her quickly through the hall as if she were a bird, floating and flying away, into the court yard and then further still until she came upon the Broken Tower.

A single candle was flickering high above, from the last window atop the tower and the princess gave herself over to the cloak as it carried her through the winding staircase. By the time she arrived at the top she was breathless.

She moved about the rounded room trying to discern her surroundings. She had never liked it here and her stomach twisted as her shadow grew upon the wall. There was no light, save for the candle in the window and the moon above. It casted pale pools of light through the caved in roof.

“Hello?” she said, her voice echoing through the empty space. “Is there anyone here?”

There was no answer at first but when it came, the voice that spoke it sent shivers down her back. “I did not think you would come,” he said.

Her eyes searched frantically through the darkness, trying to find him. Next to the window, she saw a shape moving and she tried to focus on it but she could not make him out.

“Step into the light!” she commanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

He did as she bid and when the moonlight shone about his fair face, the princess’ resolve crumbled. It was the same, she noted. Long, solemn and guarded, a deep scar on his left side. The hair was the same as well: a pitch black unruly mane she had once run her fingers through.

But his eyes gave her pause. She had expected warm and gentle brown pools to gaze upon her but they were bright and fiery, as if flames were dancing inside of them. They frightened her and she stepped back.

“Do not go!” he pleaded. “I must ask you something.”

Ask her? What could he possibly have to ask _her_? He had abandoned all of them to leave with the Dragon Queen, never to be heard from again. Ten years had passed and he had not sent one word to her.

Not even when her younger sister, Arya, who had been as dear to him as any true sister could be, was threatened with death by the Queen for refusing to forsake her betrothed, Gendry, had he gone against her. When she ordered Gendry’s execution, fearful that his king’s blood marked him as a threat against her rule, he did nothing. And later when Arya had married her Baratheon bastard and fled Westeros, and the dragon had scoured the lands high and low looking for them, he remained silently at his Queen’s side, doing her bidding.

“You have no right to ask me anything.” Even as she spoke confidently, she could feel treacherous tears stinging her eyes, threatening to overcome her.

“I know. But I must ask.” He looked outside the window for a moment before turning to her. “The enchantment won’t last long. You can ask me three questions as price for one of mine,” he offered.

 _I have nothing to ask you_ , she wanted to scream. _Nothing at all!_ But she found herself speaking nonetheless. “Who are you?”

“I am Florian the Fool,” he said, standing there in his motley armor.  “As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.”

She remembered the story well. But it was only that: a story and she was no longer the young girl who believed in such tales. “Why are you here?”

“Because my curse must end where it began. A long time ago I stole a dragon. Took hold of his mind, used his fire to kill the Night King. When his brother discovered it, he bathed me in flame.”

She remembered well enough and her heart still twisted painfully at the memory. The black beast had seared the right side of his body. Left the skin bubbling and raw. Three moons it had taken her to nurse him, changing his bandages, holding his hand as the Maester peeled the dead skin away, sitting with him through the night as the fevers threatened to take him away only for him to leave as soon as he could get up from his sick bed.

“What you saw today on the field,” he continued, “happens whenever the dragon is near. My sword arm grows weak, the skin burns threatening to rip off my bones.”

He grimaced and the princess’ tender heart still softened, hearing of his pain. “What do you want of me?” she said, fearing what he might ask.

“Only what you are willing to give,” he reassured her. “Will you come away with me? Be my Jonquil and I will pledge my life to your service if you will but have me.”

The words washed over her, hot and cold at the same time, touching parts of her that she had hidden away long ago. Her whole body sprung with need but she did not move. “You are as brave as you are foolish, my lord. But I am Sansa Stark, the daughter of Lord Eddard and the lady Catelyn. I cannot give myself to a fool.”

She could see the pain that her words had caused in the lines on his face, the tightness of his jaw but he did not ask again. “You must help me then,” he said instead. “If I am to fight on the morrow, you will need to break the dragon’s curse.”

“I … I don’t know …”

“A kiss will break it.” He bowed his head and clenched his fist tightly. “If you can bare it.”

She regarded him for a long while, watching him clenching and unclenching his burnt fist. The skin wrinkled horribly and even in the pale moonlight, she could see the ugly pink and purple gashes. She remembered, too, his screams in the middle of the night, all that time ago and the deep red mark in the palm of his hand. Smoke would come out of it until the whole room smelled of burnt flesh. No, she did not wish that pain on him.

Slowly, she came by his side and took his hand. He flinched at the touch but did not pull away. His fiery eyes watched her as she turned his hand in the light of the window candle. The red mark was still there, sharp tendrils of smoke coming out and drifting into the air. She put her lips against it and, even though it burnt hot, she kissed it softly.

When she pulled away, the mark was gone and the fool sighed in relief, as if a great burden had been taken from him.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, solemnly. “When I win the tourney, will you sing for me?”

She lifted her chin and spoke as coolly as she could: “Good fortunes, Ser Florian.”

She pulled her hood up and allowed the cloak to take her away, back to her chambers. As brave as the fool was, it was not he that the princess wanted.

That night the skies parted and the rain began to pour. It did not stop. As the second day of the tourney began, canopies had been erected to protect the high lords in the stands. Through the heavy vale of water, two knights came forth. Incessant and indignant at the fool’s audacity to defy his betters, Ser Tywald Lannister and Lord Olymer Tyrell had thought it only right to join their forces and crush him once and for all.

The princess sat on the dais, her hands digging into the arms of her chair, waiting for her Florian to appear and praying that his arm was strong enough to withstand his foes. But the fool did not show.

In his stead, a king dressed in armor of black and red, a three headed dragon emblazoned on his chest made his way towards the middle of the field atop a great black horse. His helmet was adorned with a simple, golden crown.

As soon as the trumpets signaled the beginning of the fight, Lannister and Tyrell charged ahead with murderous intent. The Dragon King did not move, waiting for them to come at him. The rains had the ground drenched and black water splattered everywhere as hooves dug deep on their charge.

The harder they pushed, the deeper their horses became entangled in the pools of black until they could advance no longer. Pulling as hard as they could on the reins, the knights tried to get their horses to move onward but all they managed was to cause them to slip, as they held on for dear life.

 That was when the king fell upon them, punishing their pride and treachery. He drove his great black beast straight in between his two adversaries and moved swiftly, his sword arm striking again and again against their feeble attempts. Lord Olymer was the first to fall, as a wilted flower might drop from a shrub when the king used all his might to strike him in the chest. He used the length of his sword, wounding the lord’s pride more than his ribs as he came tumbling face first to the ground.

 _Such a shame_ , the princess thought smiling as Lord Tyrell struggled to stand up, mud dripping from his head. _He was so very proud of his hair._

Ser Tywald proved a worthier opponent, managing to strike the king’s left arm as he turned to face him. His long sword left a gash in the armor and to the princess’ horror a thin stream of blood trickled from the slash.

As if it could sense this moment of vulnerability, the dragon appeared once more, circling the field, his song louder and harder than the day before. But it did not matter. The king payed it no mind as his sword clashed with Ser Tywald’s. As he pushed back against the Lannister’s brute force, the princess could not help but take pride at the thought that it had been her kiss that had given him the strength to fight as ably as he did.

It only took a small skirmish for the lion to attempt an ill-fated retreat. The king pursued him to the edge of the field of battle, striking him down in front of his own tent.

He rode his horse at leisure back towards the dais where the princess sat, while the crowd watched silently, some unsure of how to react, others, undoubtedly, disappointed at the loss of gold that they had incurred with the defeat of their champion.

But as the king passed in front of them, it was the Dragon Queen that rose to her feet to stare him down. The princess' breath hitched in her throat at the violent expression in her eyes and the fire that assuredly burned on the inside, threatening to overcome her.

“That is enough! Dismount!” the queen commanded, in a thunderous tone and, as mighty and strong as the king was, it took only those words for him to submit.

“Lay down your sword and kneel!”

If the princess had any hopes that he might refuse, they were soon dashed as her king laid his sword on the ground and fell to his knees, as limply as a puppet cut off from its strings.

“Seize him!” she ordered at last.

 _Get up. Run!_ the princess urged wordlessly but it was no use. He remained kneeling on the ground, as if chained in place while the queen smiled victoriously. From the stands, guards rushed to the field ready to take him away. And he would have gone with them, as a lamb might go to slaughter, if she had not spoken.

“My queen,” she said. “The knight is attending the tourney under guest rights.”

The dragon queen turned to look at her then, suspicion and surprise etched on her face.

“No knight that attends this tourney,” she went on, addressing the guards, “may be taken unless he has committed a crime. To break guest rights is a grievous sin, sers.”

The queen had changed many things in the realm once she had conquered it, but she could not change men’s hearts or fears. They all knew the princess spoke the truth and were reluctant to damn themselves over a foolish knight whose only crime had been to wear a crown.

Angry, the queen turned on her heels and left. But once the crowds were dismissed and the princess made her way back to the castle, she came at her, probing and asking so many questions that it became all too clear that she had guessed the knight’s true identity. She, once again, sent her men to search for him. This time they went further than in search of the fool. The Last Hearth itself they reached but could find no traces of him.

When she arrived safely back to her chambers, the guards heavy on her heels, the queen’s words still rang in the princess’ ears. _Why would he wear the colors of my own house and pretend himself a Dragon King unless to defy me?_ She feared for his safety and her own but the fragrance of the winter rose called to her as sweetly as a lover’s whisper and her nerves quieted as she found it laid on the desk before her.

She readied herself for the night in a dress of misty blue silk, adorned with rubies as would befit an audience with a King. When she was done, she took the rose and pricked her finger without hesitation, for now she knew that no magic ever came without a cost.

The small droplet of blood disappeared through the petal folds and in its stead a fine golden dust rose. It settled on her chest, her neck, it ran down her arms as gentle as summer rain, pooling on the ground beneath and rising once more until it formed a cloak of glittering gold, more magnificent than any cloth the princess had ever seen.  

The moon was already high up in the sky as she glided through the castle as swiftly and silently as a ghost. Past the guards singing a bawdy song and the kitchen maids fetching water for the guests she went, until she entered the Great Hall.

The music rang loudly and people danced all around her, spinning and jumping heartily, bathed in the golden light of the iron wrought braziers. The princess carried a sad sort of smile looking at the happy faces of young girls being picked up by their suitors and spun into the air, her heart longing to feel such lightness again. At the long tables the high lords sat, fat and satisfied, as they feasted on choice meats and roasted vegetables and the cup bearers filled their mugs with ale.

The cloak did not allow her to dwell, however, whisking her away outside, through the court yard. The rain poured all around her making her cloak glisten in the moonlight but she did not feel it. As the Broken Tower came closer into view and she saw the flickering candle perched in the window, she found her heart beating to the rhythm of the distant drums of the Great Hall she had left behind.

The long walk up the stairs felt like an eternity but finally she arrived back in the rounded room. As she walked towards the window, the darkness and the movement of her shadow upon the wall did not frighten her as much as it had done the night before. Nor did she call out for she could see the shape moving in the darkness just in front of her.

The King stepped into the pale moonlight, the simple crown still atop his head and gazed upon her, his posture hard and his eyes burning aflame. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him. His hair was slick with rain and his beard covered in shimmering water drops. She longed to run her fingers through the curls at the back of his neck, trace the skin upon his fair face with her fingers but his fiery, red eyes gave her pause.

“Who are you?” she asked, breathless.

“I am Aegon Targaryen,” he said.  “The rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 “Why are you here?”

“Because I made a choice and that choice was taken from me. Winterfell was my home once. There was no place in the world I loved more. No other place where I wanted to be and I swore that once the war was over, I would never leave it again. But on the last night I was here, the queen came at me as I lay in bed. She said that, as punishment for deceiving her and taking her dragon, she would take something from me. I did not know what she meant then ...”

Tears pricked the princess’ eyes as she remembered the Dragon Queen hovering over his weakened and burnt body. She had sent her away from the room with a curt command but she had lingered behind the door, fearing the queen might hurt him. She could have never imagined that a few hours later, he would rise from the bed and follow her South without so much as a farewell.

 “When morning came and she told me I was to come with her, I found that I could not refuse her, my body and my mind no longer my own.”

As his words registered, relief overcame her. He had not left her after all. Not willingly at least. Her heart leapt as she asked: “What do you want of me?”

“Only what you are willing to give,” he said, his voice tinged with hope. “Will you come away with me? Be my queen and the whole of Westeros will kneel at your feet.”

Part of her wanted to go to him then, curtsy as she had been taught to do as soon as she could walk and thank him for the honor of his proposal. But her feet would not move and she bowed her head sadly. “You are as brave as you are noble, Your Grace. But I am Sansa Stark, blood of the North and of the First Men. I cannot be a Dragon’s queen.”

His eyes closed sadly against her implacable words. “She knows who I am now,” he said. “Grant me your kiss so I might fight on.”

That she would do gladly for he was never meant to be chained. As she approached him, she remembered their last night together, the specks of ash that had come out of the queen’s breath and the way he had rubbed at his left eye all through the night, until it turned red and swollen.

Her hand cupped his cheek then and he leaned in just enough for her knees to go weak. She kissed his eyelid softly and tenderly, feeling him tremble beneath her touch. A single black tear fell upon his cheek and when he opened his eyes, the fire in them had been extinguished.

She smiled for she recognized those eyes now: warm and kind, gentle pools of brown and amber that gazed upon her so intently as to make her quiver.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, bowing to her. “Will you grant me your song if I am victorious on the morrow?”

 Her voice was but an uncertain whisper: “Good fortunes, Your Grace.” 

She lifted her hood and gave herself over to the cloak that carried her back to her chambers. She had wanted to be queen once and wear a beautiful crown upon her head, sitting on the left side of her beloved King and husband. But as magnificent as the Dragon King was and even as the feel of his warm skin lingered on her lips, it was not he that the princess wanted.

During the night, the first of the summer snows fell. By morning, the field was covered in a heavy blanket of white. All the world, it seemed, had fallen still and quiet as the lords and ladies huddled in their furs for warmth, waiting for the final battle to commence. The queen shivered on her throne, her face barely concealing the discomfort.

The princess, however, did not mind the cold. She looked around in wonderment at the thin sheets of ice that formed upon the wooden stands, the icicles dripping from the canopies and the pure white snows of her childhood memories that glittered in the sunlight so beautifully. It was all so perfect that she thought it an enchantment.

Soon her untouched snow was tainted by heavy hooves marking the ground as Ser Harrold Hardyng advanced, dressed in his polished steel armor and helmet adorned with the falcon and the half-moon sigil of his house. Proud and tall he stood upon the field as he waited for his opponent.

When the man showed, he was no longer fool nor king. He was a warrior drabbed in a simple armor of stiff brown leather, save for his steel breast plate marked by two direwolf heads facing each other. His head was uncovered for all to see him, his hair tightly pulled at the back but none of the lords in attendance seemed to make note of it.

No one but the princess and the queen knew him and while one regarded him with warm, blue eyes, the other burned and seethed with barely contained rage.

As soon as the trumpets rang, the two men charged at each other, swords unsheathed. When they clashed in the middle of the field, the ringing of their steel pierced through the air as thunderbolts. They circled each other again and again, hitting shield and sword alike, in a dangerous dance that had the princess terrified.

When Ser Harrold pushed his sword forward it landed inches away from the warrior’s cheek and it became hard for her to breathe. Thankfully, he jerked his horse at just the right moment, avoiding the blow and quickly striking hard against Ser Harrold’s shield.

So hard was the blow, that the Vale knight’s shield broke in two and he staggered back loosening his grip on the reins of his horse. As the warrior came at him again, the animal spooked and rose on his back legs to defend himself, sending the Young Falcon to the ground unceremoniously, his helmet flying off his head.

The audience gasped at this sudden turn of events. Was the tourney over? they wondered. Their favorite had been dismounted and yet they were not prepared to give up their claim.

The princess’ rejoiced, preparing to stand up at once and declare the warrior the victor of the tourney and of her hand but, as always with brave men, things were never simple for the women that loved them.

A moment passed and the warrior dismounted. “Stand up, my lord,” he commanded. “I will not let a horse claim my victory.”

Bewildered, Ser Harrold scrambled to his feet, retrieving his sword from the snow. The warrior waited until the knight was good and ready but when he finally came at him, he parried his attack with ease, striking at the sword and swiftly moving out of the way as the Falcon drifted forward, hitting at air. Again and again, he tried to catch him but his sword met only the falling snow.

Only when he tired, his sword heavy as lead in his hand, did the warrior strike back. His response was hard and brutal. The white wolf pummel of his great Valyrian sword hit Ser Harrold flush in the stomach and he fell to his knees. He stood over him and asked: “Do you yield, ser?”

The Young Falcon still had some fight in him and he stood up, on trembling legs, pushing forward with a loud grunt. So weak was his assault that the warrior pushed him back with one arm while the length of his sword hit at his calves sending the knight on his knees once more.

He placed the tip of his sword against Ser Harrold’s neck, forcing him to look up. “Do you yield?”

The proud lord’s eyes still held the look of defiance about them but when the warrior lifted his sword, meaning to strike him again, he grew desperate enough to lift his hands and scream. “I yield!” he said, terrified. “I yield!”

Ser Harrold was spared that final blow and the warrior lowered his sword slowly, before turning to face the princess.

Even from the distance, she could feel his eyes upon her, warm and full of longing and she smiled wildly. He had come back to her and she would never more be alone.

She wanted to ran down to him that very moment, embrace him and welcome him home but before she could do just that, the queen spoke out, in a hard cruel tone.

“That was quite the performance,” she said. “But the time for tomfoolery is over, ser. Kneel!”

The warrior stood still, his frame proud and unbending. “The only queen I plan on bending my knee to sits beside you,” he said.

“Why have you come here?” she barked. “What do you want?”

“I want only what was promised,” the warrior said, looking at the princess. “Lady Stark’s hand in marriage.”

A cruel smile spread across the queen’s face. “But that is impossible, ser. You are not worthy of such an honor.”

As her bannermen joined the queen in voicing their protests, the princess stood up quickly and faced them. “I have made a pledge, my lords, that the man who won the tourney would become my lord and husband. Upon my word as a Stark, I will honor that pledge!”

Her bannermen came at her then, speaking and whispering in her ear. “You must reconsider, my lady,” they said. “This man is not worthy of you. Who is he to deserve such a prize?”

“Do you not remember, my lords?” she said, smiling tenderly at her warrior. “He was your king once. He ended the Long Night and saved you and your children from the army of the dead.” With pleading eyes, she beseeched them: “Do not forsake us now, my lords, as we did not forsake you.”

But the bannermen were blind to their lady’s entreatments, all memory of the warrior long gone from their minds. “This man is nothing to us,” they said.

“Listen to your lords, child,” the queen said, her cruel smile still dancing upon her lips. “This man is nothing but a cur and a liar. It was surely deceit that won him the tourney.”

“The queen speaks truth,” the lords agreed. “It must have been his vile tricks that defeated the brave Ser Harrold. Otherwise how could one like him win against the Lord Paramount of the Vale?”

The princess could barely contain her disgust at the treachery of her vassals. Her last hope rested with the Young Falcon and she turned to the man who stood upon the field, still doubled over from the blows the warrior had handed him. “Is this true, Ser Harrold? Were you defeated by tricks and deceit?”

The Falcon was silent at first but when he looked up at her, his face was a mask. “It is, my lady. I am quite certain of it.”

She swallowed back the bile at his untrue words and regarded him coldly. “I had always thought you an honorable man, ser. I see now that I was mistaken.”

“I am sorry to hear of your low opinion of me,” he said, standing up straighter, his dull, blue eyes filled with pride. “I hope that once we are married, I will be able to remedy that.”

The princess swore as loud as she could that she would never marry him but the queen’s power seemed stronger than her will. “The lady is tired,” she announced, signaling her guards to come for the princess. “Please see her safely back to her chambers. She must make ready for her betrothal to Ser Harrold tonight.”

As the guards grabbed hold of her, her bannermen stood to the side and allowed them to drag her from the stands.

Only her brave warrior spoke out. “Unhand her!” he commanded and unsheathed his sword, running towards the dais.

“He means to attack the princess!” the queen shouted for all to hear. “Stop him!”

Before he had managed to reach the stands, soldiers and lords alike ran towards the field, intent on capturing him. As she was being dragged away, the princess looked back. _Run_ , she thought. _Run!_

The warrior hesitated for a moment but, as she slipped further and further from his grasp, he finally turned and ran back towards his horse.

She could hear the clicking of steel as he fought to get away from the field and through the corner of her eye, she saw him ride away, as the queen’s men gave chase.

The princess did not struggle against the vice like grip of rough hands that dug into her flesh, when the guards pulled her back towards the castle. It did not matter now. They could lock her up behind a hundred walls. A thousand locks they could put on the doors. It did not make a difference. When night came, she would go to him and he would be waiting for her.

The sun had already set when the guards pushed her inside her chambers and instructed her to make ready for the feast. Unable to wait a moment longer, she went to her desk and picked up the blue rose that had been left for her. She caressed the petals gently before pushing her finger against one of the small thorns peppered along its stem. She let the drop of blood fall unto the silky folds, leaving a trace of red upon the blue as it slided downward.

She waited for the magic of the rose to rise and engulf her but as moments turned into hours, tears feel on the petals where the blood had once been.

Cry as hard as she could and stare at it for as long as she did, the rose still would not yield. _There is no magic left_ , she thought, bitterly. She had healed his hand and his eye, lifted his curses and he had given her but a rose for her troubles.

When the guards pushed the door open, they found her sitting on her bed, dressed in her maiden clothes. Dutifully she had labored for months on them, with an unwilling hand. The heavy light grey cloth of her dress rustled and moved as she stood up, the weirwood branches embroidered on the skirts, glittering in the candle light from the mother of pearl beads she had patiently sown into the stitching.

Upon her shoulders she wore her maiden cloak. It was not cloth of silver or gold, but the white furs that encircled her neck gave her a dignified pure look that queens would envy. A large direwolf head was embroidered with silver thread upon the back, so determined was the princess that she should walk a Stark to her unwanted wedding. And in her hands she still held the small blue rose. It burnt her, scorned her and yet she could not let go of it.

As the guards escorted her to the Great Hall, her feet dragged upon the stone floor like a prisoner before an execution. But walk she did, holding her head high, her face still and quiet, unwilling to show her pain.

The queen and her bannermen had taken great pains that night to turn the austere Stark hall into a truly joyful, lavish place. Sumptuous silks had been placed upon the long tables and the chairs were decorated with wreaths of pine and winter flowers. Guests feasted on exquisite golden plates filled with delicacies brought from all corners of the seven kingdoms and so many candles had been lit that the whole room seemed bathed in warm light. The best minstrels in the North had been commissioned to play that night and their sweet songs filled the Great Hall, beckoning the guests to dance and swoon to the rhythm of lute and drums.

But as the princess was made to sit on the left side of Ser Harrold, she found no beauty in any of the finery. Stiff she sat, feeling as if it was all but a cruel joke, one to be enjoyed at her expense. And none was more hateful to her than her betrothed. Proud and fawning as a peacock, he laughed and cheered with the lords around him, looking back at her from time to time with dull, blue eyes.

She turned her face from him, staring blankly ahead, not wanting to look upon his lying lips or think of what would come once morning broke.

The feast went on and the guests began to forget that she was even there. Her mind drifted as she aimlessly toyed with the rose in her hands, bruising her fingers but feeling nothing at all. Her thoughts turned to the Broken Tower where the fool and the king had waited for her, imploring her to come away with them.

 _Will you grant me your song,_ he had said. It was the one question she had not answered. _I don’t know any songs._ But she had known them once … A long time ago, her heart had been filled with them.

His question lingered in her mind, melding to the tune of the minstrels. _Your song_ … _grant me_ … _Will you grant me your song?_

Her feet seemed to know what to do before her mind did and she stood up, drawing the attention of the guests on her. Slowly the music died down as she made her way to the center of the hall. She looked up at the minstrels, sitting in their alcove. “The Winter rose,” she said.

The soft, winding tune began and for a moment she feared her voice would break but as she began to sing, a steady, crystal clear sound came out, so sweet and tender as to make grown men weep.

_The spring was clear and it was here_

_Where Bael took his lady of the Winter_

_Her spirit wild, heart of a child yet gentle still_

_And quiet and mild and he loved her_

 As her song began in earnest, the fragrant smell of the rose she was holding began to rise and float about the room. It settled on the silky table cloths and on the choice meats. Men ate it from their plates, and drank it with their ale, breathed it in their lungs. So sweet a flavor it was that they could not get enough.

_And he would say:_

_“Promise me, when you see_

_A blue rose, you’ll come to me._

_I love you so, never let go._

_You will be my Winterfell rose”_

 Lulled by the princess’ song, they stretched their limbs and laid back in their chairs. Even when the minstrels’ instruments began to creak and then fell silent, they did not notice. Their arms grew heavy and they sighed in contentment.

_When all was done, he turned to run_

_Fading with the rising sun, as she watched him._

_And ever more she thought she saw_

_A glimpse of him upon the snows forever._

 The princess’ voice grew stronger and bolder, like the gleeful song of a skylark in spring and she smiled as she saw her bannermen and all the queen’s men stretching out before her, heads on tables, drifting blissfully to sleep. The queen herself struggled to remain awake but finally gave in, her head gently laying against her pale white arms, an innocent, childlike expression on her face.

_And she would say:_

_“Promise me, when you see_

_A blue rose, you’ll come for me._

_I loved you so, a long time ago,_

_When I was your Winterfell rose.”_

 Her voice echoed through the silent Hall long after her song had finished. All around her, the lords and ladies of Winterfell lay on the stone floors, spread out in their finery. Guards had fallen asleep on their posts, servants had laid down their serving trays and huddled in corners. On her golden throne, the queen slept, sighing from time to time as if in the midst of a sweet, summer dream.

 The princess pulled the hood of the furred cloak over her head and ran out of the Great Hall. In the court yard, squires and stable boys, horses and dogs alike slept in the frozen hay and not a sound was heard, save for the snoring of the dragon, coiled atop the Hunter’s Gate.

 Man and beast mattered not to the winter rose. All of the North slept that night as the princess ran towards the Broken Tower, gentle snowflakes dancing all around her, guiding her way.

 As she came upon the tower, she looked up towards the last window, expecting to see the candle flickering. But the window was dark and for a moment a sharp jolt rumbled in her stomach. It wasn’t until she heard the snicker of a horse, that her senses returned to her. She ran, encircling the tower until she found him on the other side. He stood dressed in his brown leather armor, the sigil of their house still upon his breast as he gently patted his horse.

 When he heard the scrunching of the snow, he turned around and finally gazed upon her. His face lit up in such happiness that the princess felt as if his eyes alone could keep her warm and safe for the rest of her life. His arms stretched out and he ran half way towards her before she stepped back, smiling at him demurely.

 “Don’t I get three questions?” she asked.

 He stopped in his tracks, his arms falling at his sides but an easy smile rested upon his face and his eyes glimmered as he answered: “Of course, my lady.”

 “Who are you?”

 “I am Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.”

 “Why are you here?”

 “I am here for you,” he answered, his voice strangled with longing. “You are my heart and no man can live without his heart.”

 “What do you want of me?”

 “Only what you are willing to give.” He came closer then, talking all the while in a low, hushed tone that made her tremble with joy. “Will you come away with me? I have no lands or titles but if you will have me, I will spend the rest of my life loving you.”

 Tears fell down her face as he came to wipe them away, his warm callused fingers gently tracing down her cheeks. “I am Sansa Stark, the Daughter of Winterfell,” she said.  “ And I have no need of lands or titles as long as I have you.”

 He sighed a ragged breath dropping his forehead to touch her own while his hands cupped her face. “Will you let me kiss you then?” he asked. “As you did on that last night?”

 She closed her eyes and nodded slowly, remembering the sweet taste of his lips on the night before he left when he had told her he was hers forever. He sealed his promise to her once more, as he tasted her lips, melting the snowflakes off her skin. He lingered in his gentle kiss until she felt weak in the knees and her hands wrapped tightly around his neck to pull him close, the blue rose she was clutching falling upon the snows. She made a promise of her own then. She would never let him go again.

 When morning came and the people of Winterfell awoke, the North remembered. They remembered their brave king and the Three Eyed Raven and how they had ended the Long Night. In vain they searched for their beloved princess and her warrior and great was their sorrow when they could not be found.

 None was as sorrowful as the queen, however, and none as angry in their grief. Her guards were dispatched across the seven kingdoms to find the lovers but none ever came back with news of them. So great was her fury that she took to her dragon and bathed Winterfell in fire, knocking down its white walls, flinging open its gates, raining blazing storms upon it until it fell in ruins and ash.

 But try as hard as she might, she could not bring down the Broken Tower. The place that had been her bane and her shame stood proud against her dragon’s flames and from the snows where the princess’ rose had fallen, strong, thick vines spread across the stone, blue roses blooming from fire and ice.

 From that day until this day, the blue roses bloom in Winterfell and, as long as they are here, the North will always remember,” he said, at last, dropping another kiss to her fingers as he finished his story.

 His voice still held her in its spell and she was unwilling to break it just yet. “And what of the princess and her warrior?”

 “All traces of them disappeared from Westeros but, further into the North, in the Lands of Always Winter, the free folk still tell stories about them. Of how they hid them in their caves and warmed them at their fires and how on a winter’s day, much like this one, their king, Tormund Giantsbane, took them to the place where the last remaining weirwood tree stood, to be married.”

 “So they lived happily ever after?”

 “They did.”

 “That’s nice,” she finally said, her arms curling around his waist. Her head rested against his chest and she hummed. “I liked this story.”

 He pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her close. When they parted, he stretched out his hand and plucked one of the blue roses from the tower’s vines. Carefully he picked off all the thorns before placing it in her hair. “The blue looks pretty with your red hair,” he said.

 She rewarded him with a wide smile and grabbed him by the waist again as they began to walk away from the tower. “Let’s go home, Jon,” she said.

In their wake, a chink of ice fell from where Jon had picked the flower and a new blue rose bloomed to take its place, filling the air with sweetness.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm absolutely hopeless at writing poetry. My mind simply doesn't work in that way. So for the song that Sansa sings, I've used as inspiration (and by inspiration I mean I just used the lyrics and altered things slightly to make it fit the Bael the Bard story) Ghost of a Rose by Blackmore's Night. You can check it out on youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPk9c0UK0Fg. It's a stunning song!


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